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Story of His Life
by Ron Gibson, Jr. Hubert was restless. Perpetual motion. His mother said he was a tempest, a tsunami, a trick motorcyclist in the velodrome of her body, always moving, defying gravity, but never getting anywhere. Story of his life. Nearly a month late, her swollen body ached as if gut punched twelve rounds a night. She was either carrying Jack Dempsey or Gene Kelly, dancing and singing in placental rain, pink gums for a smile. But then he was born and it all ended. Hubert moved little as possible, sleeping all night, conserving energy as if in a marathon to the grave. Story of his life. When work called, he ducked. Hid in nooks and novels. No one could find him. Not his mother, boss or wife. If you were Chicago, he was Antarctica. He read in fugitive twilight until the movement of his eyes was too much and slept. He dreamt of living forgotten yet dying remembered. Story of his life. Every candle added to the cake became another wish that something big would happen this year. Even when the cake took on wildfire proportions, and his eyes were failing, and his skin spotted and thinned, and his ears distanced themselves from the world, Hubert still felt like a teenager in training, lining the wall of his high school dance, waiting for the Eureka moment to find him, secretly afraid of the pain of breathlessness after blowing out his candles and the lights going out. |
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